


The Same Doesn't Feel The Same

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Prostitution, Protective Sam Winchester, Protectiveness, Season/Series 01, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-05
Updated: 2011-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things can't stay the same forever... and some things shouldn't have to. While other things don't change at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Same Doesn't Feel The Same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [purple_carpets](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=purple_carpets).



> **_A/N:_** HAPPY HALF-BIRFDAY TO THE ONE AND ONLY **purple_carpets**! I've enjoyed getting to know you on here. Sorry this is one day late due to unexpected plans... I hope you enjoy this nonetheless. Thanks to **vie_dangerouse** for the look-through and brownies to **reapertownusa** for the final beta.
> 
> This fic takes place in the early part of Season One.
> 
>  ** _Disclaimer:_** Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada.
> 
>  ** _Extra Warnings:_** prostitution, non-explicit m/m sex, reference to underage.

Sam slips out of the too loud, too bright, bustling bar. Outside, the Montana night is silent and big, quieting his roiling emotions. He tilts his head back and looks up at the white swath across the sky. _Jess would love this_ , he thinks and loneliness slams deep in his chest, hard and raw and aching. He knows he’s more than a little buzzed, as he lowers his head and lets himself cry, but he doesn’t care. Not really.

There’s a low, breathy moan somewhere behind him and Sam jerks out of his self-pitying grief, instantly alert.

There’s a hollow bang and Sam pushes away from the fence. Going around the establishment, he sees two figures in the darkened alley by the dumpsters, silhouetted by the bright neon beer ads in the windows of the bar. Sam screws up his face in disgust when he realizes one of them has his back against the dumpster and the other has his face pressed up to the first guy’s crotch.

It’s a bit too dark to see clearly, but there’s just enough light, all murky and green and red and blue, to see the first guy reach up and clutch the lip of the dumpster, hips thrusting in time with his moans, other hand gripping the kneeling figure’s hair. The guy on his knees is silent, methodical, too casual. He doesn’t seem to be particularly interested, as though he’s done this before, but his body language isn’t stiff or uncomfortable.

Suddenly the dumpster guy lets out a loud cry and they disengage. The first guy pulls up his pants, handing the second figure something before shoving past Sam. Sam doesn’t get a good look at him, all of his attention on the guy in the alleyway.

“Dean?” Sam breathes, making his way towards a young man of his brother’s height and build half-hidden by the dumpsters.

The figure in the too-tight light gray t-shirt flinches and twists, hands clenching into fists at his sides, hyperaware and on guard.

And Sam gets a good look at his brother’s face. In the faint neon green light of a Heineken logo, Dean’s eyes are wary, his lips chapped and blood is oozing sluggishly from one corner. Dean raises the back of his hand to the split skin and presses it there.

“What is it to you?” he snarls defensively, pulling away his hand and glancing dismissively at the slick black smear.

Sam opens and shuts his mouth. “Dean... are you...” Sam’s words die in his throat. “I thought you didn’t swing that way.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why...” Sam trails off as Dean pales, swallows convulsively, and twists to the side, bending over at the waist. There’s some sick-sounding gagging and hawking but they must prove ineffectual because Dean raises his hand and sticks three fingers deep into his mouth.

The gags shift to gut-wrenching heaves that makes Dean brace one spit-slicked hand against the metal side of the dumpster. He vomits and vomits and vomits. After a long moment, he slowly straightens, gray and shaky.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles, smearing away glistening bile from his mouth with his hand.

 _Come_ , a small voice in the back of Sam’s brain supplies and he’s revolted anew. “Dean.” His voice is sharp and accusing, even to his own ears.

Dean cringes, hunches up his shoulders and doesn’t meet Sam’s gaze. “Please, Sammy,” he whispers softly. “Can we talk someplace else, please. Anywhere but here.”

Sam nods. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s go home. But you’re still gonna talk.”

“I know. I will. Just not here.” And _please_ is written all over his too-expressive face and posture.

Sam silently herds Dean out of the alleyway and to the Impala, not trusting his brother to follow.

“Give me the keys. I’m driving.”

For a moment it seems as though Dean’s about to argue. He opens his mouth and then shuts it wordlessly, reaching into his jeans pocket and pulling out his keys. He tosses them to Sam.

The short drive to the motel is awkward, the dead air between them oppressive and heavy.

Dean reaches over only once to turn on the tape deck, but decides against it at the last minute, dropping his hand with a too-careless shrug.

Soon enough, they reach the motel and Dean’s out of the car almost before Sam cuts the engine.

Sam gets out of the car and deliberately follows Dean into their pre-paid room. He clicks the door shut behind him as Dean drops onto his bed.

“Alright. Spill.”

Dean flinches, head jerking up to meets Sam’s eyes and there’s pain there. “Quick way to make cash. You’d be surprised how much some pervs would pay for a pretty face.” Dean’s voice is hard, bitter. Angry. He takes the wad of bills from his back pocket, begins counting. Sam doesn’t miss that there isn’t a denomination below twenty and he’s pretty sure he even sees a couple of Ben Franklins.

Sam sits on the opposite bed. “How long? How old...” He doesn’t finish the question, hoping Dean would get the rest —

“Was I when I started being a cheap alley whore?” Dean’s face is a direct challenge, daring Sam to contradict him. “I was twelve or thirteen. It wasn’t long after that Christmas in Blue Earth where you found out about dad and monsters. Dad didn’t leave enough money to cover the rent and we were so hungry...” Dean trails off, leaving a heavy silence.

“But now...”

Dean shrugs. “Easy money. I name my price and it’s quick, dirty.”

Sam stares at Dean dumbly. “We’re not kids anymore,” he says. He exhales. “Dean... I want you to stop. No more. This ends tonight.”

“No.”

“All right then.” Sam rises to his feet and goes to the duffels.

“Sam what are you doing?” Dean shoots to his feet as Sam pulls off his t-shirt, tugs on one of Dean’s and switches out his jeans for a clean dark-wash pair.

“You said we need the money and you won’t quit. And, well, I’m not going to let you do it alone.”

“Sam... no.”

“Why not? You do.”

Dean exhales, sinks back onto the double bed. “You have no idea.... I don’t want this for you.”

“And it’s okay for you to do it?” Sam’s voice comes out sharper than he’d intended and Dean winces. He gentles his tone. “Dean. Look. Can’t you see it goes both ways. I don’t want this for you either. We’re in our twenties, man. We aren’t kids. You don’t have to do this anymore. You need money so bad, I’ve got a checking account in my name from when I was at Stanford. It’s only a couple of thousand dollars but you can have it.”

Dean ducks his head and Sam crowds into his space.

“Dean?”

“Idontwannadoitanymore,” Dean mumbles out in a rush, his voice low and hard, so soft Sam almost misses it.

He looks down, remembering the night Dean came to Stanford. There’s a lot of things he regrets about that weekend, but Dean isn’t one of them.

“Okay. You don’t have to. I’ll help. We’ll figure it out. We can get day jobs of honest work here and there and we’ll team up to hustle pool. There’s two of us. We’ll rake in twice the cash...”

Dean nods.

“Alright. Take a shower. Tomorrow we’re going to go a clinic and you’re going to have a complete workup. HIV, syphillis, every known STD... the works.”

“Sam... I...”

“I know you’re careful. But do it for me. I’d rather know you’re clean for sure. We’ll lie. No one will know the truth. I promise.”

Dean doesn’t say anything as he crosses the room, going to his own duffle. He methodically takes out a fresh pair of boxers and a clean t-shirt before continuing his way to the bathroom.

He pauses in the doorway. “Thanks Sammy.”


End file.
